


Pluck Your Strings

by Senket



Series: Melody [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to find the perfect person- ahem, instrument- to be the centerpiece for his concerto. Things go as well as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pluck Your Strings

“Excuse me.”

John smiled when the woman looked up- wilted somewhat when she merely cocked an eyebrow and turned back to the phone she had slipped from her pocket the moment rehearsal ended, ignoring the other musicians buzzing about her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” John forged on, holding out his hand. “John Watson.”

She gave the gesture a cursory glance, flickered a smile at him and proceeded afterwards to ignore him. She looked bored with the whole things. Maybe she had flocks of men coming up eager to introduce them to her. He wouldn’t be surprised. Clearing his throat in an effort to dispel the awkwardness, John pulled a nearby chair over, sitting on the edge of it, leaning forward on his knees. “I’ve been tasked to write a concerto, you see. I was considering writing for harp as the solo instrument- could you perhaps share your expertise?”

Astounded by the strained, formal language passing his lips, John rubbed his face. Blood from a stone and all that.

Her expression was distressingly condescending, somehow still soft. ‘You poor child’ rather than outright rude, which he imagined was a tough balance to find but he didn’t like being on the end of. “I’m a professional harpist in the London Philharmonic.” ‘Of course.’

Yeah, fine. Pretty woman, lovely instrument... perhaps not worth it. “Could I get your name at least?”

She looked up again, held his gaze for a moment with a private little smile, before speaking: “Persephone.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “...You know, I could always check the handbill if I need to.”

“Yes,” she said, laughter in her voice. “You could.”

“Problem?”

John stood at the voice, turning on his heel. “Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft smiled genially, warm eyes flickering between them. “Are you giving Doctor Watson a hard time, darling?”

“Not at all, sir,” the woman smiled, tucking her phone back into her pocket as she stood, straightening her blouse. “Doctor Watson.” She inclined her head with an amused quirk to her mouth. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Uh. Sure. I- Yes. Of course. It was nice meeting you, miss.”

They strode off together, Mycroft Holmes and the lady harpist, matched in charcoal grey suiting. John blinked after them for a long moment before turning to see if anyone had seen.

Only Greg Lestrade was still on the stage, surreptitiously shooting John amused glances as he gathered his papers into a worn leather bag. Despite being quite serious where his work was involved, the conductor seemed like a nice enough bloke. John meandered over to him, glancing back towards the door the pair had vanished through. “Are those two together?”

Greg laughed outright- it looked pleasant on him, warm- not at all mocking. Thank god for that, because otherwise he might’ve felt insulted. He settled down after a few moments, mirth dancing in his dark eyes. “No, they’re really not. He’s gay.” The man’s gaze flickered to the door with a muted wash of tenderness that surprised John. There was more going on than he’d first thought, apparently.

The older man straightened, closing his bag with a snap. “Both of them, now that I think of it,” he grinned. “She was with Sarah, last I checked.” He inclined his head, glancing up. “One of the French horns. Nice girl. Steady. Very smart.”

“You’d have to be, dating Amanda,” he added with a different smile, crinkling up his eyes. It looked oddly paternal. John lifted an eyebrow. “Not to worry,” he sighed, “unfortunately you probably won’t be around long enough for it to matter. We’re long past the days of resident composers, now, aren’t we?” He looked a little sad about it.

John knew how he felt. There was a huge difference between knowing how many of which instruments an orchestra had and actually knowing how that specific orchestra sounded and felt and worked together, and writing something specifically for them. John much preferred the second, but it took so long to build that sort of rapport with a group, to be able to understand it intimately... He should be so lucky.

Greg Lestrade shrugged on his coat (it looked far newer than his bag, thick, dark leather, barely worn. John could still smell it from where he stood) “Up for a pint, Doctor Watson?”  
“It would be my pleasure, Doctor Lestrade. Football or Rugby?”

“It bet you played rugby in university,” the man laughed in reply. John grinned and didn’t deny it.


End file.
